Dear John
by mcj
Summary: Written in June 2011 for the TIWF Fic-Swap, now expanded and divided into two parts. For Tin-Tin Kyrano their life and death struggle with the deadliest virus in the world "told a story" and "asked many questions"
1. Chapter 1

_Author Note 1 – This story was written earlier this year for the 2011 TIWF ficswap challenge. The task was to write a hurt/comfort story featuring the characters of Tin-Tin, Gordon and John. It didn't turn out to be quite the usual hurt/comfort piece but there was no doubt that writing it was a challenge. I hope you enjoy it_

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><p>"<em><strong>Dear John"<strong>_

_**"Part One"**_

_**written by "mcj"**_

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><p><strong>MARYLAND (midnight)<strong>

Life was unpredictable, or so her father always said.

Here one second and gone the next.

Such is our journey in the world.

The secret to the journey is to accept from the beginning that there is only so much time we have been given.

Cherish every moment and make the moments good.

Live, because the only chance you have might not be there for you again, tomorrow.

It was her father's wisdom that fuelled her need to express how she felt in a letter. It was a letter unlike any she had written before. It told a story and it asked many questions. It helped her come to grips with the last twenty days and their struggle against life's unpredictability.

They'd been flung together...

…then torn apart…

"_Dear John,"_was how her letter began.

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><p>"<em>I find it hard to believe that it's been almost three weeks since your father was forced into making that call. Nothing like this had ever happened to International Rescue before. It was even beyond the expertise of Brains." <em>

**USAMRIID (United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases) Fort Detrick, Maryland **

Colonel James Bryson, M.D. rolled backwards and forwards in the chair behind his desk, wondering at what point their so-called "commander" would get the message that he wasn't impressed.

The newly appointed head of USAMRIID didn't take kindly to anyone, let alone some authoritative "ex military buddy of his predecessor," muscling in on specialized turf, telling him what to do, how it should be done and above all, when he should do it.

Biological containment fell well within _his _jurisdiction and no-one knew it better than Bryson. He only wished this guy would shut up long enough to listen to him, so he could make that point blatantly clear.

He also wasn't buying the punch line that International Rescue could be facing a race against time.

Okay, so they'd gotten themselves into trouble. It wasn't USAMRIID's problem that they'd taken it on themselves to ramp things up in some random little native village in Uganda. An incident during their response to a call for help didn't necessarily meet James Bryson's criteria for potential exposure to some sort of deadly virus. So far, all he'd managed to establish was that the use of his facility had been sanctioned by the president and that there were three members of International Rescue involved.

"So, tell me again why you think they've been exposed?" he interrupted, impatient to concentrate on the facts. Since taking up his appointment at USAMRIID two months earlier, Bryson had already earned himself a reputation for not only being rude, but blunt.

What he didn't bank on was the pause on the other end of the communication, and their commander lowering his voice at least an octave.

"Hell, Bryson. I don't have the time for this crap. I've got one of my aircraft and three of my people grounded in the middle of nowhere. They're covered in black, stinking _blood_. I'm not _asking_ you for hospitality. I'm not _expecting _you to be nice. What I need and _right now_ is your personal expertise and a clearance for the three of them from your containment facility."

He was a pushy bastard; there was no doubt in Bryson's mind about that. It was hard not to feel the stirrings of respect despite the burning urge to dislike him. Whoever he was, he had obviously been one of the big guys once; the type who still expected their orders to be obeyed. Bryson wasn't too sure if he wanted to get any further into the argument with the International Rescue commander, particularly if the president was already involved.

"All right," he conceded, forming a finger tent with his hands, "but I caution you right now that what you are expecting me to authorize here isn't half as straightforward as you make it sound."

Touché.

That had obviously hit a raw nerve. Their commander wasn't nearly as aggressive with the next response he gave.

"I fully understand that USAMRIID has procedures, Colonel."

"Procedures that you will find are non-negotiable," Bryson stressed in return. He didn't give a damn how many lives they were supposed to have saved.

In the silence that followed, he made a quick mental note to make very sure that every procedure was followed to the letter. If International Rescue _had_ been exposed, it was going to be one big deal, and he seriously doubted that any of them would be walking out of USAMRIID with a medical clearance any time soon. Some of the virus strains James Bryson had studied during his twenty five year medical career took weeks to incubate; others ravaged a body in less than three days. At USAMRIID, "identify and contain'" took on a whole new meaning and Bryson knew damn well if he wanted to keep his job, he would be responsible for doing exactly that.

"So, where to from here?"

Bryson shrugged. "I guess that it's your call, Commander."

The deep voice had no hesitation in assuming complete control.

"Thunderbird Two can be instructed to fly to Fort Detrick immediately," he confirmed. "I am aware that you have the necessary facilities to secure the craft and keep it under guard while it's there."

Bryson bristled at his confidence. So the commander of International Rescue thought he knew everything about USAMRIID, did he? How much he really knew would now be put to the test.

"We have one runway direct into the facility, yes," he acknowledged. "We can also place your aircraft under twenty four hour guard. However, be very aware, _Commander, _if that aircraft is found to be carrying infected personnel, I have it within my power to order that it be destroyed."

He sat back and collapsed the finger tent, waiting for the reaction to his statement. He knew that the International Rescue crafts were rumored to be worth millions. He also knew that Thunderbird Two was their carrier ship and absolutely vital to their operations. It would interesting to see what price their commander was prepared to pay for USAMRIID to carry out the necessary tests on his men.

"I assure you that I'm more than willing to take that risk, Bryson," was the answer.

"...because two of those on board are my sons."

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><p>"<em>It must have been so difficult to make the decision to send us to USAMRIID. I could only imagine what was going through your father's head at the time. The situation was bad enough without being told what might happen to Thunderbird Two when we got there. How concerned must he have been for us all?" <em>

_**Uganda, Africa**_

It was still outside John Tracy's comprehension why Virgil had turned all defensive and started arguing the point when Father had ordered him back to the base. Virgil had been scouring another area of the danger zone at the time. Why would Father want to take any further risks by allowing him to remain in a village suspected to be contaminated?

Virgil's one-eyed view, of course, was that Scott wasn't there and as the second eldest, he was responsible for what was going on. No-one could be more stubborn than Virgil when he'd made up his mind about something and it certainly hadn't been a pleasant exchange when Father had stood firm, and in no uncertain terms, demanded that he remove himself from the area.

John had seen some memorable blast-offs in his time but nothing quite like a fired up Virgil who had no desire to leave the scene or sit behind Thunderbird One's controls all the way back to Tracy Island. If the situation had been played out under different circumstances, he and Gordon would still be laughing at the spectacle. It was a rare occasion when Virgil lost it, and using Thunderbird One as an outlet for his expression definitely hadn't endeared him to their father.

But now, with the sound of Thunderbird One's engines fading rapidly into the distance, John Tracy was left staring at the controls of Thunderbird Two, contemplating a frightening reality.

He had been exposed to something deadly and he didn't know what it was.

Tin-Tin and Gordon had both been exposed to it, too.

They were stuck in Uganda awaiting "further instructions."

They didn't know when they would be allowed to go home.

Father had said, "Don't panic, son", "leave this to me," and that he was "taking things straight to the top." It was a matter of them sitting tight and being patient, John supposed. Father rarely needed to resort to outside help and he'd never invoked his political connections with the president.

The trouble with patience was that it gave John too much time to reflect on the things that had happened during the rescue and he didn't like what he was remembering at all…

It certainly hadn't started out as one of their more routine assignments. Not only had the emergency call come from an obscure location in the Ugandan jungle; Scott was on the mainland carrying out corporation business at the time, leaving John to take over the role of field commander.

Father didn't waste any time ordering the launch of Thunderbird One once Alan had provided him with the brief. Thunderbird Two had followed closely behind, after it was agreed that Tin-Tin should go along to supplement the depleted crew. With one man down and the report of a major landslide, Father knew that someone else would be needed to priorities any survivors. Tin-Tin had jumped at the chance to help set up a triage. The rescue looked like it was going to be tough.

When Thunderbird One arrived at the danger zone, an aerial sweep found the village in the path of the landslide almost obliterated by boulders and muddied debris. The debris looked to be almost eighty feet deep in places and John had expressed his concerns to Father that anyone buried underneath would still be alive.

There were a few primitive buildings on the perimeter of the area which gave him a little more reason to be hopeful. Alan was contacted and requested to use Thunderbird Five's powerful scanners in an attempt to try and locate any survivors.

"…as fast as you can," had been John's preoccupied command.

Thunderbird Two's arrival at the scene coincided with Alan confirming that there were no signs of life under the rubble. Virgil had refused to believe it at first; insisting that Five's scanners had been wrong before. He'd set off on his hover bike to scour the area, telling John they wouldn't be leaving the scene until he was sure.

Not long after, Alan detected what he thought might be a sketchy reading inside one of the huts. Gordon and Tin-Tin wasted no time grabbing the resuscitation equipment from the pod before the three of them headed off in the direction of the shabby makeshift building...

John Tracy sighed and tapped anxiously at the console. What was taking Father so long? It had been almost three hours since he'd reported the incident to the base. He was finding it hard to maintain control of the roller coasting emotions. Tin-Tin was becoming more distressed by the minute; Gordon kept asking him what the hell was going on; and he swore if Alan contacted him one more time demanding how something like this could have happened, he was going to say something he'd _really _regret.

It took another fifteen minutes before Thunderbird Two's communications finally came back to life and Father's worried voice rumbled through the cabin.

"John, you are to proceed to Maryland on the double," was the message. "You don't have a moment to lose."

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><p>"<em>You were so quiet during the stressful flight to Fort Detrick. I knew you were apprehensive and Alan's outbursts hadn't helped. What had just happened to us had happened, and it was pointless apportioning blame. Blame is nothing but a useless burden. It feeds guilt and it changes absolutely nothing."<em>

_**USAMRIID, Fort Detrick, Maryland**_

Gordon Tracy followed the woman in the green ventilation suit down the corridor, trying not to count the number of thick, steel doors that were closing behind him on the way to his "temporary accommodations."

He wondered if now was the appropriate time to flag that he was feeling a little claustrophobic.

He swallowed and balled up his fists, instead.

Gordon had already decided an hour ago that USAMRIID was no five star Hotel. Huge machines whirred along the long, winding corridors. Red and green lights reflected off the white, sterile concrete walls. There were people in lab coats monitoring screens without blinking.

He shuddered and tried not to think too hard about what the room service would be like.

They were expected to co-operate fully and be tested on the hour, Colonel Bryson had told them. Temperature…blood…throat cultures...urine. Nothing was left to chance at USAMRIID. They would also be required to commence a series of daily vaccinations for all known viruses still in existence on the African continent.

"These are Lassa Fever, Marburg and the three known strains of Ebola," Bryson had rattled off. "The first vaccination is to be administered immediately."

The vaccinations would be painful and taxing on the body and there was nothing whatsoever he could do about it. The only alternative was rest and that was their responsibility. Only time was going to shed light on what it was.

Gordon made the mistake of trying to lighten things up by asking Bryson if his idea of breaking good news got any better.

What he'd really wanted to say was that he hated vaccinations.

And Bryson didn't have any sense of humor.

Gordon was still beating himself up for failing to take the necessary precautions when faced with a rescue in a 'hot zone.' It wasn't as if International Rescue didn't have access to hazmat suits, or they hadn't been adequately trained. The stench that had assaulted their senses as they neared the old hut should have been the catalyst for them to stop and approach the situation with caution. Internal injuries and broken bones didn't give off that type of smell. He could almost hear Father's voice in the debriefing, already.

"And so can someone explain to me why all three of you choose to ignore it?"

To make matters worse, once they'd found the dying man, their only focus had been to try and stabilise him so that he could be evacuated for medical treatment. There had been no time for hazmat suits once the vomiting spasms got started. Gordon had never seen so much blood project out of one human body.

The woman in the ventilation suit had stopped outside a narrow door and was indicating that this was to be his room. It almost looked like an ordinary hotel room; that is, if a guy didn't mind the ceiling to floor glass or he didn't expect to have any privacy. Even the small bathroom only consisted of the necessary items disguised behind a series of strategic steel panels.

They sure weren't joking when they said USAMRIID monitored everything.

Tin-Tin was going to flip.

"Gee ma'am, I had no idea I was getting the penthouse," he offered nervously as the door hissed open and he was ushered inside. "If I'd have known you were going to treat me like some sort of celebrity, I'd have gone all out and packed my silk cravat."

Like Bryson, the "vent suit" with the name-tag Magetti, didn't see the funny side of life. She shrugged and pointed at the pile of backless hospital gowns on the chair beside the bed.

"YOU NEED TO SURRENDER YOUR CLOTHING," she yelled above the hiss and ebb of the ventilation suit. "AND I'M SURE YOU KNOW WHAT I NEED YOU TO DO WITH THIS."

An empty specimen cup joined the pile of gowns on the chair.

Gordon looked disdainfully at the space behind the scant steel panels and then at the screens across the hall where every move he made would be monitored.

This was definitely not any five star Hotel, all right.

He hoped he wasn't going to be here for too long.

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><p><em>I didn't understand why we needed to be separated. I saw the look on Gordon's face as he left. We were International Rescue when we arrived but one order from Colonel Bryson changed everything. Why was it that when things became a matter of life or death, they made us feel so terribly alone? <em>

**USAMRIID – East Wing**

Tin-Tin Kyrano watched the needle sink deeper into her skin and tried to think of something positive in an attempt to control her breathing...a romantic dinner...flowers...champagne... chocolate…the luscious scents of Paris wafting aimlessly through the air.

The plastic tongue depressor and invasive throat swab soon removed thoughts of anything positive. Tin-Tin closed her eyes, gagged a little and resisted the urge to throw up.

This was the seventh set of tests she'd undergone today.

At least Magetti was quick, Tin-Tin supposed, trying to feel grateful. She was bagging up the swab for the lab already. She was the complete professional; focused, detached and in control, offering no information unless she was asked. For Tin-Tin it was almost like looking at a carbon copy of herself. It was the only form of comfort that she had.

"I'LL BE BACK IN AN HOUR," Magetti said, nodding and gathering up her equipment. Tin-Tin wished she could say that she was looking forward to her return.

It had been two days now and there was still no word. She just wanted this nightmare to be over.

She had to admit she didn't like Colonel Bryson. His first words to them had been, "Here at USAMRIID, we are obliged to identify and contain." That was only after he'd ordered them to remove their wrist communicators and undergo a mandatory decontamination shower.

The smell of the bleach still stuck to her hair and skin. Nothing could be further from a romantic night in Paris.

Colonel Bryson had asked her lots of questions as he administered the vaccines, urging her to think very carefully before she answered so that he could give consideration to "when she could be recommended for release."

His most recent interrogation had centered on whether she thought she had been directly exposed to the shower of red and black vomit. How close had she been to the deceased when the vomiting started? Was there any possibility it had come into contact with her eyes? Her hands? Ears? Nose? Mouth? Other less exposed areas of her anatomy?

After the stress of solitary confinement and never-ending medical tests, Tin-Tin had found it difficult to concentrate and provide him with the information. She remembered being behind John when they'd entered the hut and Gordon pushing past her as soon as he saw the old man, anxious to do something to help. She also remembered Gordon checking the man's body for injuries and John demanding she "get that resuscitation equipment over here right now."

But where she was standing when the vomiting started...

...Tin-Tin had to admit she honestly didn't know.

Tin-Tin knew that Colonel Bryson was waiting for one of them to exhibit some sign that they'd been exposed to either the Marburg or the Ebola virus. The only virus she knew anything about was Lassa fever and medical research had now progressed to the point where once the vaccine was administered, there was nothing for her to worry about.

Bryson hadn't hesitated to share his impressive survival statistics on Lassa. When she'd asked him about Marburg he'd become very guarded. He point blank refused to discuss Ebola. All he would say was that Ebola "took from three to twenty one days to incubate", "wasn't pretty," and that the survival rate "wasn't very good."

Tin-Tin sighed and pulled the hospital gown closer around her body before slipping in between the stiff, white regulation sheets. Captain Magetti had told her to try and get some rest between the tests. She did feel a little tired, she supposed.

Her thoughts drifted back to a romantic night in Paris... the dinner... the flowers...champagne...chocolate…

...the luscious scents wafting aimlessly through the air.

It was starting to feel like those whirlwind days together hadn't happened at all.

She wondered if she'd ever get the chance to be with Alan again.

"_I didn't cope well in the glass walled cell. It began to play havoc with my mind. Colonel Bryson kept telling me that my life could depend on how much I could remember. This only confirmed my growing fear that you and Gordon could be in danger of losing your own."_

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><p><strong>USAMRIID – North Wing<strong>

So, International Rescue was Jeff Tracy's baby.

The billionaire, who had partly isolated himself three years ago, was the mastermind behind one of the most carefully guarded secrets in the world.

James Bryson looked at the young man with the blond hair and the ice blue eyes and told himself that he probably should have guessed. There appeared to be no end to the achievements of ex-astronaut Jefferson Tracy; the man with the steely nerve and fierce determination who headed the powerful Tracy Corporation. International Rescue was just another thing on the list.

His son certainly wasn't proving to be any different, if nerve and determination was anything to go by. Bryson had been on the back foot all morning trying to be diplomatic as he answered his questions. He'd never met a young man so direct and intense or so unwilling to believe anything he was being told.

He spoke to John Tracy from where he sat, legs crossed, on the other side of the glass. Communication via a hand-held intercom; the young field commander was trying to be polite about its necessity but Bryson could tell it was starting to get on his nerves.

After sixty hours of continuous testing, John was demanding to know exactly what he was supposed to have been exposed to. All Bryson was prepared to say was, "At the moment, your lab tests are still inconclusive."

"Yes sir, but we both know you're in a position to guess," he pushed.

Bryson agreed that it was certainly possible for him to speculate on what they might be dealing with, but a guess in this case was hardly appropriate, and it wasn't going to satisfy Jeff Tracy.

"Your father made it very clear to me that what he expected from USAMRIID was an accurate assessment," he responded. "I'll need at least another twenty four hours to be sure."

The blue eyes were calculating. John Tracy didn't believe him for a second. Something warned Bryson that it would be a mistake to underestimate the young man's intelligence no matter how vulnerable he looked behind the wall of enclosed glass.

But even if young man didn't believe him, Bryson was being honest in his response. Their lab tests _were _still inconclusive. No bricks of the suspected viruses were multiplying in their blood. There was no disputing that bricks had been detected in the latest set of blood samples, but it was yet to be established if they were antibodies from the vaccines or if the virus was present and the vaccines were stopping them from multiplying.

Bryson was still hopeful he was only observing antibodies but deep down his gut was already churning with dread. If what he was seeing under the microscope was what he thought it was, the survival statistics of the virus itself stopped short at less than a worrying fifty percent.

The interrogation continued, this time with more intensity.

"How is my brother feeling, Colonel Bryson?"

Bryson shifted his chair. At least there was a straight answer for that.

"Your brother is comfortable enough," he reported. "He's obliging and keeping my medical staff entertained."

He was pleased to see John Tracy's worried features relax for a few moments. He looked relieved to finally be told that his brother was doing okay. Bryson had already sensed the close bond between the two brothers and knew there was much, much more to International Rescue than just a well-drilled highly disciplined team. They genuinely cared about each other and that included the woman, Miss Kyrano.

How she was holding up was the next thing he was asked.

"She's rattled, but coping. I only wish she could remember a little more. I've put it all down to the strain of the situation but the lack of information isn't helping. Of course, if you can think of anything else you haven't thought to tell me, it just might help speed up her medical clearance."

All of a sudden the exhaustion on John Tracy's face became more evident. He sighed and began rubbing at his eyes. Hourly observations had indicated he'd slept very little since arriving at the facility. Bryson was still deciding whether it was part of his International Rescue conditioning or the stress of the solitary confinement was to blame.

"We've been over this several times now, sir." John's voice was almost mechanical. "I'm sure Tin-Tin was behind me the whole time she was in the hut. The only thing I can't confirm is where she was after she handed me the resuscitation equipment. I'm sorry but I was too pre-occupied. We only noticed the blood stains on her sleeve when we went back to the pod to report the situation to my father. Sir…" he sighed again, "…you have all the uniforms I triple bagged before we came here. Haven't they been able to tell you anything?"

Bryson did appreciate the last thing John Tracy wanted to do was keep resurrecting what had happened in Uganda, but he didn't have any other option but to keep asking him. They were sitting on a time-bomb and he needed more information. Without it, all the vaccine in the world wouldn't help.

All his brother kept saying was they'd never dealt with anything like it before...the unforgettable gurgling sound of a man drowning in his own body fluids...the convulsions...the groans...the never ending shower of black blood...

Bryson's medical experience in Africa, pre-USAMRIID was already telling him there was only one virus which produced those kinds of symptoms. It was something he'd seen once and he'd never wanted to see it again. No wonder his gut was churning at the thought.

He'd spent the last three days studying their blood in "Biosafety Level 4". He'd authorized the destruction of their uniforms after tests began to point to what he'd first suspected and didn't want to know.

All that was left now was to wait for the inevitable to make the final diagnosis.

"Your lab tests are still inconclusive," he repeated.

Then he ended the conversation before he was asked anything more.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note – I would like to extend my thanks to everyone who took the time to review Part one or send private messages … mcj_

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><p><em><strong>"Dear John"<strong>_

**(A Re-cap of Part One)**

**MARYLAND (midnight)**

"_Dear John,_

_I find it hard to believe that it's been almost three weeks since your father was forced into making that call. Nothing like this had ever happened to International Rescue before. It was even beyond the expertise of Brains. _

_It must have been so difficult to make the decision to send us to USAMRIID. I could only imagine what was going through your father's head at the time. The situation was bad enough without being told what might happen to Thunderbird Two when we got there. How worried must he have been for us all? _

_You were so quiet during the stressful flight to Fort Detrick. I knew you were apprehensive and Alan's outbursts hadn't helped. What had just happened to us had happened, and it was pointless apportioning blame. Blame is nothing but a useless burden. It feeds guilt and it changes absolutely nothing._

_I didn't understand why we needed to be separated. I saw the look on Gordon's face as he left. We were International Rescue when we arrived but one order from Colonel Bryson changed everything. Why was it that when things became a matter of life or death, they made us feel so terribly alone? _

_I didn't cope well in the glass walled cell. It began to play havoc with my mind. Colonel Bryson kept telling me that my life might depend on how much I could remember. This only confirmed my growing fear that you and Gordon could be in danger of losing your own."_

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><p><em><strong>Part Two<strong>_

"_They later told me that the two of you were being difficult. Why did it not surprise me? I knew Gordon would be hiding his apprehension behind a mask of idle jokes, and that you would be wearing the exact same disguise by demanding answers to unanswerable questions. I have never understood why we try so hard to avoid sharing the fear we all sometimes feel inside. My Father says it is the way we have learned to deal with the unfortunate things which have happened to us in our lifetimes. We both know he's right. Don't we John?" _

**USAMRIID – East Wing**

Captain Maria Magetti left Tin-Tin's suite with another set of blood samples and took the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator. Bryson was going to be pissed as all hell by the time she made it up to Biosafety Level 4.

Not that it bothered her. The shit always seemed to be hitting the fan when it was something to do with him. Bryson had been acting like a bear with a sore head for nearly a week with the pressure he was under...

…and besides, the Kyrano woman had really been in need of some support.

Quiet, withdrawn and cradling both forearms blotched purple with bruises, she'd asked Magetti in a tired, resigned voice if there had ever been a time when she'd found herself starting to regret her career choice.

For once in her life, Magetti had been lost for words. In her fourteen years as the only female microbiologist in USAMRIID, she'd spent more time working her ass off to be considered "one of the guys" than agonizing if microbiology had been the right field for her to enter in the first place.

At 45, Magetti was much older than all the other MB's. She'd also done things pretty tough when it came to USAMRIID. It had taken her almost ten years to make captain, despite her impressive qualifications, and another four and half trying to prove herself to the previous commander before Bryson was appointed and had acknowledged her talent.

Since then, she had worked beside him every time he'd entered Biosafety Level 4, complementing his skill, challenging his hunches and confirming his various diagnoses. Magetti couldn't say the new responsibility had made her like the arrogant asshole any better but she'd always owe him big time for the opportunities.

It had been hard to weigh up the best response to give Kyrano. The last twenty four hours had seen a significant decline in her health. She'd lost weight, had zero interest in her surroundings and during the last few testing regimes had started to look like she was about to fall apart at the seams at any moment.

"NO," Magetti had finally admitted as she busied herself capping off the first tube of blood. "I'VE WANTED TO BE A MICROBIOLOGIST FOR AS LONG AS I CAN REMEMBER. CAN'T SEE THAT CHANGING FOR ME ANY TIME SOON."

Magetti didn't go on to elaborate that off-siding Bryson had also allowed her the privilege of insisting on her own special protocols. She was the only MB authorized to collect body fluids direct from Bryson's patients. She was the only MB who had a full clearance to enter Biosafety Level 4, alone. She was also the only MB who was "compulsively anal, always out of line and with no concept _whatsoever_ of what USAMRIID considered inappropriate," or at least that's how Bryson put it when she argued with him about what he was seeing under the microscope. The dressing down would always end with the warning caveat, "and only for as long as you're good at what you do here , Magetti."

She knew that Bryson was never going to allow her to forget that.

Kyrano had simply nodded at the reply and had turned her head away before the second vial of blood was filled. After the third, Magetti had felt obligated to make some sort of effort to continue the conversation. Kyrano didn't look like she was up to the request to submit to another throat swab or be told it was time for her to use the bathroom.

"YOU'RE ONE OF THEIR ENGINEERS, RIGHT?" she'd asked, rummaging through her equipment. "IT MUST BE TOUGH FOR YOU WORKING ALONE IN AN ENVIRONMENT FULL OF MEN."

Contrary to what Magetti expected, Kyrano's response had been a very firm and steady "no". There was no time in International Rescue for her to worry about the job being tough. When you were in the rescue business you just had to jump right in and do it. It was one of the things she used to love.

What she did find tough was facing the fact that being a part of International Rescue had landed her in place like USAMRIID…

… every function of her body displayed on the monitors.

Knowing something deadly might be multiplying inside her and there was nothing she could do.

No-one prepared to give it to her straight if there was a chance that she might die.

"I need to know what's going to happen to me, Captain Magetti," she'd swallowed, squeezing her eyes closed to stem the impending tide. "Why won't Colonel Bryson just tell me?"

All Magetti could do was give Kyrano time to compose herself before continuing on with the testing. No doubt Bryson would have something to say about her failure to push the urgency to get the samples under the microscope but that was where his methods were very different to Magetti's.

Urgency was one thing. The human psyche was another.

It really bothered Magetti to see a woman as strong as Kyrano breaking down.

* * *

><p>"<em>I was so afraid of knowing the outcome of the tests but I think I was even more afraid of not knowing. I conjured up so many negative thoughts as the days went on. When I think about it now, my reactions almost shame me. I questioned my decision to join International Rescue. I questioned my relationship with Alan. I even blamed your father for asking me to go to Uganda when I knew the decision that was made was entirely my own." <em>

**USAMRIID – West Wing**

Gordon Tracy picked at his breakfast and half-heartedly congratulated himself that his reservations about the room service had been right. Ten o'clock in the morning and they'd only just remembered to bring him some coffee. At least it looked like they hadn't managed to do too much damage to his slice of toast and scrambled eggs.

Gordon hadn't slept well at all over the last five days. He guessed his life as the new USAMRIID goldfish made him feel a little self conscious. That; or it was being jabbed in the ass every five minutes causing his insomnia. He was starting to lose his happy disposition.

Things had been a little unnerving since he'd admitted to developing the headache. It had started with a dull ache behind his eyes yesterday morning and despite their "start of the art" medication, it was steadily becoming worse.

"Vent suit" Magetti had looked all worried when he'd told her, insisting it was necessary for her to notify Colonel Bryson.

Gordon had tried to ignore the alarm in her voice by joking that he couldn't tell anyone in USAMRIID anything. It was nothing but a little caffeine withdrawal. There was no reason for her to panic or inform "USAMRIID's head cop."

After another round of testing and a thorough examination by Colonel Bryson, he'd now found himself attached to three separate monitors. The lab coat on other side of the hall was observing everything. No wonder he had no appetite this morning.

Whatever it was they thought he had, Gordon had already convinced himself that it wasn't fatal. He'd served enough of his time as an apprentice to the grim reaper these past two years. No more teetering on the edge for him. The headache would pass, and it would only be a matter of time before he'd be on his way home to Tracy Island.

It seemed so long since he'd launched himself into a pool...

...tasted one of Grandma's brownies...

…smelt the fresh air…

…or given his father a hug.

Colonel Bryson had said that "in view of the circumstances" there was the real possibility he could be here for at least another sixteen days. Sixteen more days of blood tests and being told when it was time to use the bathroom. Gordon wasn't too sure how he was going to deal with that.

Life in USAMRIID was nothing like the bathyscape or the long months of rehabilitation after he managed to bang himself up in WASP. Life in the bathyscape had been lonely but fascinating. There was nothing fascinating about USAMRIID; its military protocols and impersonal white, sterile walls.

Disgruntled, he shoved the rest of his breakfast to one side. They needed to take lessons from his grandmother if they expected him to keep eating this crap. It didn't help that the headache was fast becoming an absolute bitch. It felt like his whole fucking head was about to explode.

"It's only a precaution at this stage but I'd like to observe you a little more closely in the event you may be starting to develop symptoms."

That had been Bryson's explanation for the monitors. Symptoms of what, he was currently "not in a position to disclose". The guy kept the same poker face and said the exact same thing no matter how many questions he was asked. It wasn't as if Gordon couldn't handle a dose of cold, hard reality. What was he? Fucking ten years old?

The lab coat was watching him, his forehead crinkled with concern. Gordon ignored him and climbed back into bed.

He was pissed off.

He was tired.

He'd had enough of USAMRIID and he'd had enough of Bryson.

All he wanted to do was get the hell out of this fucking place and fast.

As he closed his eyes to the pounding in his brain, he heard the crashing of waves along the rocky shores of Tracy Island.

White crested waves…

…blue sky

…warm sun

…the welcome trickle of sweat across his mouth and down his chin.

The sensation was so real to Gordon he almost tasted the salt.

It was then that he realized that his nose was bleeding.

* * *

><p>"<em>Do you think as the days and the nights went on we started accepting we own mortality? Until now, I think being young had blinded us to the fact that death is not something which is negotiable. We had somehow all forgotten the lessons we were forced to learn as small children left behind to be raised by our fathers. You lost your mother, John. I lost mine. We both know that someone we love and trust can be taken away from us at a time when we least expect it." <em>

**USAMRIID – North Wing**

Thirty by forty...

…thirty five by forty five, if you counted the bathroom.

The bed got in the way when you tried to pace out the diagonal.

Compared to this place, life in Thunderbird Five was the ultimate.

They were now into the sixth day of their detainment and John was way past imagining what Father was going to say about how he'd handled things in Uganda. There would be no need for any kind of debriefing when Bryson finally provided them with a clearance. John had already over analyzed everything.

If the emergency call had come in just seventy two hours earlier, they wouldn't even be in this situation. Alan and Tin-Tin would have just returned from Paris after their three day pass. Scott would have been reviewing Tracy Corporation paperwork in preparation for business his trip to New York. _He_ would have been the one in Thunderbird Five about to finish his rotation.

It would have been a completely different set of dynamics in the lounge.

Thunderbird One would have been dispatched to the scene, but with Scott, not him, as the field commander. Thunderbird Two would have followed behind but with Virgil, Gordon and Alan as the crew. There would have been no need for Tin-Tin to be involved. She would have been left behind to work with Brains.

The landslide scene wouldn't have been any different. Eighty feet of rocks and muddied debris didn't change. Scott's instruction would have been to run Thunderbird Five's scanners to check for any signs of life before proceeding any further.

His own response would have been, "Sorry, Scott. No survivors."

Scott would have argued that the scanners had been wrong before and insisted that they be run again to be sure. Virgil, Gordon and Alan would have been ordered to stand by pending confirmation. No-one would have dared set out on a hover bike.

When life in the hut was finally identified, Alan and Gordon would have grabbed the resuscitation equipment and hurried to the scene with Virgil. Virgil would have radioed Scott to inform him something wasn't right the moment he noticed the smell. The order would have been given to them to return to the pod for hazmat suits. Scott would have joined them, wearing one of his own.

In John's tired mind, Scott would have done all the things that he _didn't_ do in Uganda, and pacing thirty by forty for the last six days wasn't making him feel any better about it.

He was still waiting for Bryson to return to re-examine him. Magetti had said there were now concerns about his fluctuating temperature. Half an hour ago it had hit thirty eight point five. John didn't need the latest update to tell him he hadn't been feeling well for the past twenty four hours. He felt like crap and he ached all over.

He'd also spent most of last night in the bathroom.

But he continued to pace whenever he could, ignoring the thumping in his head and trying to tell himself it was nothing. He couldn't be coming down with anything, because it meant the others might, too.

And it was no comfort to know that the choices they had were restricted to Ebola, Marburg or Lassa fever.

* * *

><p>"<em>I don't know at what point Colonel Bryson told your father. All he told me was that Mr. Tracy had been calling USAMRIID every day and kept demanding to be given an answer." <em>

**USAMRIID **

James Bryson stood at the window of his office with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the giant green masterpiece that was still under twenty four hour guard. One order from him and Jeff Tracy's amazing engineering feat would be gone.

It was the last thing he intended to heap on his conscience, at the moment.

Jeff Tracy would be calling USAMRIID any time now to receive the promised update. In less than ten minutes they'd be acting like gun-slingers again…Bryson as a commander first and a doctor second; Tracy as a commander who had grounded his entire operation and who was struggling to come to terms with what could be happening to his sons.

So what did Bryson do?

Just come straight out and say it?

Say that his suspicions were correct and another twenty four hours of Magetti's lab tests had confirmed them? Tell Tracy that his three young people had been exposed to a rare strain of the Ebola virus and one of them had definitely started to break with the symptoms?

Or did he find a way to sugar coat it somehow?

Blurt it out quickly and tell him that it could be worse?

Talk positively about survival rates and what could be done to make the patient more comfortable?

Admit that the vaccine he had been administering for the past six days was experimental and one he had developed himself?

Say there were no guarantees?

Colonel James Bryson M.D. knew his job. He knew he had been commissioned by the military to identify and contain biological pathogens that could be utilized by the enemy in warfare. Ebola was one the deadliest viruses in the world. As Commander of USAMRIID he couldn't allow anyone who had been exposed to it to leave Fort Detrick until the twenty one day incubation period was over.

Not unless they were in a hermetically sealed body bag and cremated as soon as possible.

Over the past seven days James Bryson had gotten to know some of the faces behind International Rescue. He'd wrestled with the intuition and persistence of their young field commander. He'd maintained a stiff upper lip when Magetti had reported with one of her annoying smirks that he'd been officially christened USAMRIID's "head cop." He'd felt twinges of guilt interrogating the pretty young engineer who'd tolerated his painful vaccinations so bravely.

It wasn't going to be easy to tell Jeff Tracy that he might be about to lose one of them.

But then, Bryson would always be a soldier first.

He pressed his lips together and turned from the window as the telecall came in. The uneasy churning had started once again in his gut.

He squared his shoulders and re-buttoned the jacket of his uniform. Spit polished shoes click clacked across the floor as he made his way towards his desk. In the centre of the desk was the final report from Captain Magetti, the finest microbiologist he had.

He glanced at the dot points. Not that he needed to - he knew every single one of them by heart.

_*Testing positive for SEBOV (Ebola Sudan)_

_*Current fatality rate – 53%_

_*1 of 3 patients confirmed as infected _

_*Incubation period – confirmed at 5 days_

_*Vaccine – experimental_

_*Administered 24 hours after exposure - and continuing_

_*Prognosis for patient - unknown at this stage _

_*Stage 1 (already observed) – loss of appetite, severe headache, nose bleed, muscular pain, fever._

_*Stage 2 (already observed) – blood clots, diarrhea, extensive vomiting._

_*Stage 3 (observation continues for advancing symptoms) – delirium, copious internal bleeding, will extend to the orifices, maculopapular rash._

_*Stage 4 – death _

His eyes lifted to the vid-phone.

"This is Colonel James Bryson, M.D..." he began gruffly.

It was time for Jeff Tracy to hear the truth.

* * *

><p>"<em>And so it was, once the diagnosis was confirmed. Colonel Bryson told each of us one by one. It was difficult news and I found it hard. I didn't know how to react. My father had always said to me that life was unpredictable and now here we were staring that unpredictability straight in the face. All I could think about was whether the journey had been good. I tried to comfort myself by believing that it was." <em>

**USAMRIID**

Maria Magetti had been eighteen years old and in her first year in College when all the hype of the impending moon colonization had introduced her to a young man dressed in a crisp navy blue uniform then known to the world as Captain Jefferson Grant Tracy.

Their meeting had only occurred via the small colored television in her corner of the dorm but for Magetti, it had been a meeting which had left a lasting impression. She remembered how he had spoken to the jostling media; cool, calm, confident, humble..."grateful for this wonderful opportunity." It hadn't surprised her when he'd gone on to become one of the richest men in the world. To a college student surviving on nothing but waitressing tips back then, Jeff Tracy's rise to fame had been nothing but inspirational.

She had never had the desire to meet Jeff Tracy. A microbiologist in Maryland had nothing in common with a man passionate about aerospace or with a secret commitment to do something about the unnecessary loss of human life in the world.

And yet here she was inside the USAMRIID hospital monitoring room watching the man whose hard earned billions funded the renowned secret organization known as International Rescue. He was standing in the corridor beside Colonel Bryson watching the administration of the second day of treatment through the glass.

He hadn't moved from the moment it had begun.

Jeff Tracy seemed smaller than he had looked that day on the television. Maybe it was her admiration of what he was about to achieve which had made him appear so tall in Maria Magetti's eyes. However, he still dwarfed Bryson and the small oriental man on his right; Kyrano's father.

The father was Kyrano all over without the cool, tough façade.

The lines on the monitors told Magetti the treatment was going well. The patient was stable and at the moment it looked like the fight for life would go on. She would soon be required to leave her post in the monitoring room to carry out another round of testing. Not for signs of a deadly virus. Today, the testing would determine if it was still worthwhile for Colonel Bryson to administer the additional bags of plasma.

Stage three of the virus was such a heart wrenching thing to watch.

It was James Bryson, not Jeff Tracy who turned away from the glass. He gave her his eyes and with a quick, sharp nod indicated that the treatment was over and it was time for her to suit up. It was a pre-determined protocol discussed several hours before. While the Commander of International Rescue was at USAMRIID there would be no discussion about anything. The patient was in Stage 3 and all Bryson expected his top microbiologist to do was her job.

But did he?

Captain Maria Magetti was completely unprepared for the genuine emotion which had now welled up in those tired, brown military eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Fourteen days later – Maryland<strong>

Tin-Tin Kyrano dreamed of the smell of rotten slaughterhouse waste.

It stuck in her throat, its acrid taste almost choking her as she followed them towards the hut; safe behind their wall of blue.

They were leading her through a doorway and into the darkness.

Black soon replaced the familiar shades of blue, orange and lilac.

She could hear someone groaning. She couldn't see who it was.

When her eyes adjusted to darkness, she noticed the wall of blue was gone. The dream had melded into the one she had relived so many times before in her childhood.

She saw herself as six years old again. Frightened…

…and looking for the place where they had taken her mother.

Her father had said what they did was necessary. Her mother's time had come and they had to be brave and carry on. The images of unexpected loss continued to process through her mind in exact order as she saw herself approach the body still groaning in the corner of the hut.

Closer she went…

…and closer still...

Maybe her mother hadn't really died at all.

But just before she got there, the body on the ground lurched forward. Blood began spurting from every orifice. It splattered across her cheek with so much force that she staggered backwards. It was gurgling. Raw sewage started running like an incessant river between its legs.

"_NO!"_

Tin-Tin's whole body jerked. She flayed her arms and threw back the covers. She stumbled out of bed and staggered blindly in the semi-darkness of their hotel room.

"_TIN-TIN!"_

His arms clasped around her. He pressed her head as tight as he could to his chest. She struggled against him before allowing him to rock her gently back and forth. She heard him whisper into her hair.

"Honey, it's OK. It's OK. You're going to be OK."

As her breathing slowed down and she realized she was nowhere near Uganda, she raised her tear-filled face to his. His features were strained and his hair was tousled. Like the rest of his family, Alan had been finding it hard to cope with his brother's see-sawing fight for life.

His hands didn't move to wipe away her tears. She knew he dared not touch her lips with his own. There could be no exchanges of body fluids between them for at least the next six months. It was a condition of her release from USAMRIID.

Colonel Bryson had said that she should consider herself lucky. No bricks of the active virus were found to be multiplying in her blood. Her only confirmed contact with the virus had been via the vomit on the sleeve of her uniform. John's decision to triple bag it so quickly had been good.

Mr. Tracy had said Gordon would be released from USAMRIID in the next few days, after finally being cleared as secure. His headache had turned out to be nothing but a stress induced migraine. The stress had contributed to the development of the nose bleeds, too.

As for John, he was still under intensive care in the USAMRIID hospital facility. It had been touch and go but after nearly two weeks Colonel Bryson was quietly confident that his new vaccine had been administered early enough and in sufficient quantities for John to pull through.

All three of them had been lucky in their own respective ways, she supposed.

Six hours earlier she had started to write a letter. The letter told a story and it asked many questions. It had helped her come to grips with last twenty days until Alan had intervened and insisted that she needed to get some sleep.

Now, she was determined to sit down and finish it.

* * *

><p>"<em>John, if I have learned nothing more from our experience than this, it is that our life in International Rescue is a gift. It is so much more than just your father's dream. It is the way we are making our contribution to the world. The time will come when all our dreams will end, but it is then that we will cherish the many precious moments we've shared together as work to save human life. Funnily enough this is something we will always have in common with Colonel Bryson. <em>

_We are all better people for what happened to International Rescue in Uganda."_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's final notes<strong> – The backdrop for this ficswap story (the USAMRIID facility at Fort Detrick, Maryland) is one of the most well respected establishments in the world. The characters of Colonel James Bryson and Captain Maria Magetti are by no means based on anyone (living or dead) who perform, or who has performed, such amazing work in the control of dangerous viruses in our world.


End file.
